


The Art of Drinking Alone

by lapsus_calami



Category: Supernatural
Genre: A lot - Freeform, Date Rape, Drugged Dean, F/M, Gen, Hurt Dean, M/M, Please Be Warned This Is Not A Happy Story, Rape/Non-con - Freeform, and it's sad, and then suddenly i was making him suffer and realizing that i am a terrible terrible person, dean gets roofied, this started with me just wanting to drug dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-04
Updated: 2016-05-04
Packaged: 2018-05-31 04:38:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6456178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lapsus_calami/pseuds/lapsus_calami
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Dean was roofied (and one time he wasn't).</p>
<p>Translation into 中文 by <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/deanscozybed">deanscozybed</a> available <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/7646779">here</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Art of Drinking Alone

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [【授权翻译】独饮的艺术](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7646779) by [deanscozybed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deanscozybed/pseuds/deanscozybed)



> Translation into 中文 by the awesome [deanscozybed](http://archiveofourown.org/users/deanscozybed) available [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7646779).

**The Art of Drinking Alone**

_One: Sam (Dean-20, Sam-16)_

The first time Sam sees someone slip something in his brother's drink he doesn't realize it. Dad's off on a hunt alone, it's a Friday night, and Dean has drug him out to a bar. Dean doesn't let him drink but drags him along anyways for reasons Sam doesn't understand. He’s relatively sure it’s connected to Dean’s utter inability to act like a normal brother when it comes to protectiveness particularly when Dad’s gone. So he humors his brother, ordering some fries and reading at a corner table while keeping an eye on Dean occasionally.

Dean's at the bar, leaning on it casually as he chats up some long legged blonde. She eventually walks off, and Dean orders another round for himself flashing Sam a grin and a thumbs up.

Sam tenses when the tall, broad shouldered man slides up to the bar beside Dean, immediately looking far too friendly. The man leans close, laying an invasive hand on the small of Dean's back. Sam swallows, book forgotten as he calculates the various scenarios and how fast he and Dean can vacate the premises if need be. Dean seems taken aback, though this is hardly the first time something like this has happened, but relaxes quickly, catching Sam's gaze and sending a reassuring smirk.

Sam can tell he's letting the guy down gently, like Dean always does. A genuine thanks for the interest and generic explanation that he bats for the other team. The man looks crestfallen but smiles saying something that makes Dean laugh before shaking his hand and walking away. Sam watches him leave and allows himself to relax. He frowns when the man stops and turns a one-eighty taking a few quick strides back to Dean leaning in close to talk into Dean's ear. Sam can see his brother tense but hold still, listening attentively. He chuckles and ducks his head, looking incredibly shy with the earnest man towering next to him somehow managing to look like a pleading puppy. Dean replies and the man looks apologetic, which Dean brushes off like he always does probably saying there’s no reason for the man to be sorry.

The man smiles and gestures across the bar; Sam and Dean both look and Sam isn't surprised to see the blonde girl from earlier. She sees Dean looking and sends him a flirtatious wave and wink. Sam wrinkles his nose and lets his gaze slide back to his brother just in time to see the man retracting his hand from over Dean's glass. Dean is still watching the blonde and it's another few seconds before he turns back to the man. The man shakes his hand once more and offers to buy Dean a drink, which Dean refuses, before walking away again this time all the way back to his table where another man sits.

Sam watches him, trying to figure out what he saw exactly. Did the man slip something in Dean's drink or had he just been pointing? He had pointed at the blonde but Sam can’t remember if he'd still been pointing when Sam looked away or not.

Sam quickly looks back at his brother, intending to play it safe rather than sorry, and starts when he sees Dean is no longer at the bar, drink still there looking untouched and abandoned. A mild heart attack later and Sam locates him at the pool table. Sam wonders if maybe Dean had seen the man's potential slip as well and left the drink behind on purpose. Regardless, Sam’s satisfied, settling back into his book, periodically glancing up at Dean and occasionally the man.

It’s an hour later that he realizes Dean seems much more drunk than he should, the stumbling and impaired coordination no longer looking like Dean's usual act. Instead the lack of focus seems unnervingly real, which is unsettling. Still underage Dean is always careful with how much he drinks, fake ID or no. He never drinks to get drunk when he brings Sam with him, and certainly never when he has to drive the Impala because Sam isn't allowed to touch her without explicit permission or emergency. Dean has been completely anal about her since Dad gifted her to him for his eighteenth.

Sam watches Dean in confusion and hesitates in his seat. Interrupting Dean during a game is usually a big no-no, but Sam is seriously debating. The man rising from his table like a predator finally chasing after its prey spurs Sam into action. He quickly smashes his books into his bag, slinging it over his shoulder before darting to Dean using his height to his ultimate advantage. He glues himself to Dean’s side with no explanation, starting to pull Dean bodily from the bar.

Dean isn’t particularly happy, still with it enough apparently to realize they were going to lose money thanks to Sam dragging him out in the middle of the game, but Sam doesn't give a damn. The dark look the man shoots Sam as he guides his incapacitated brother from the establishment tells him everything he needs to know.

For the first time ever, with Dean warm and pliant in his arms singing random snippets of songs, Sam’s feels what it’s like to be the older brother, the protector instead of the protected.

The man had been hunting, had thought he'd catch his prey. Too bad he hadn't realized Dean had someone watching, _guarding_.

Sam drives the Impala back to the motel, deciding this would fall under 'emergency', with surprisingly little protest. If Dean notices Sam is driving his baby and recognizes the fact that he'd normally be averse to the idea he doesn’t comment. To Sam that alone speaks volumes.

Sam maneuvers Dean into the motel room able to easily encourage him to drink a tall glass of water before getting ready for bed. Dean follows all of his instructions with a silent compliance that terrifies Sam even as he coaxes Dean to bed disturbed by how quickly Dean obeys.

Sam sits on his own bed for hours after, staring at his sleeping brother burrowed under blankets and trying not to imagine how differently the night could have gone if Sam had simply said no when Dean asked him to go to the bar.

 

_Two: Sam (Dean-21, Sam-17)_

The second time Dean's drugged Sam isn't with him. It's a year or so later, Dad's off on a long hunt again and Dean's been tasked with staying with Sam. Dean doesn’t mind, but he gets bored and restless easily.

Dean tries to get Sam to tag along to the bar with him, but Sam cites a big history test and refuses, deciding to spend his time on something much more productive—studying. Dean laughs and calls him a party pooper kill joy but wishes him luck, says he'll be back before Sam leaves for school, and to call if he needs anything. Sam practically shoves him out the door thrilled Dean is finally going to give him peace and quiet to study.

He studies until midnight before calling it quits. He's somewhat concerned that Dean isn't home but talks himself down reminding himself Dean said before he left for school which wasn't until seven in the morning. He tells himself Dean is still playing pool and he feels off because it's unusual to go to bed without Dean in the room. He checks the locks, slides a knife under his pillow, and drifts off staring at the red glow of the alarm clock waiting for the rumbling of the Impala.

His alarm goes off at six rousing him from a restless sleep. He jerks up, slamming his hand on the off button. Dean's bed is still empty and the parking lot is lacking in the '67 classic car persuasion. He tries calling Dean's cell, leaving an angry voicemail when Dean fails to answer.

Sam readies himself for school trying to ignore the pit in his stomach, focusing instead on the anger beginning to blossom.

Seven o'clock comes and goes, and Sam can't force himself to leave. He tries Dean's cell again and again, getting voicemail every time. He sits at the table, jittery and angry. He'd skipped the bar last night to study and now he was missing the test anyway because there was no way he could take it when his brother was AWOL. Sam's test time comes and goes, and he sits impatiently at the wooden table in a motel room.

Dean stumbles in a quarter before noon, and Sam lays into him without preamble demanding an explanation, yelling about Dean's inability to keep track of time or answer his phone and his problem with chasing booze and skirts. He hollers for a solid three minutes before he realizes Dean isn't responding.

In fact Dean is just standing there, looking one part tired, two parts sick, and three parts hungover. His face is pale, hair ridiculously disheveled, bloodshot eyes wide, and clothes rumpled under his leather jacket. But he doesn't smell like alcohol. He smells like obnoxious perfume and a musky odor Sam doesn't want to identify. He'd say Dean looked like he'd spent the night getting gloriously and thoroughly laid if he looked even one part accomplished but he doesn't.

Sam thinks all that in a second and switches gears from furious to concerned so fast he leaves his own head spinning. Dean flinches away when Sam tries to touch him and Sam snatches his hand back fast enough that his wrist actually smarts. He tries to ask what happened, but Dean shoulders past him roughly and all but bolts into the bathroom slamming the door behind him.

The shower turns on shortly after, and Sam returns to his vigilant post at the wood table foolishly thinking that if he just sits very still and calm whatever happened will just disappear and Dean will walk out of the bathroom and scold him for skipping school and missing his test.

Dean showers for over an hour though Sam can tell the water is just running sometimes, beating down though empty air to the mat below. Dean remains in the bathroom for too long after the water shuts off. Enough time to send Sam's worry levels skyrocketing again.

After awhile he realizes Dean never got clean clothes and practically dives across the room to Dean’s duffle. He digs through Dean's bag pulling out clothes he knows Dean likes for when he's in need of comfort. Baggy jogging pants, thick socks, a well-worn t-shirt that feels soft enough to be puppy fur, and, after a moment of lip biting deliberation, Sam grabs one of his large hoodies. Dean never admits, in fact he vehemently denies, that he finds Sam’s hoodies comforting. But every time Dean’s sick or hurt for a long period of time one of Sam’s hoodies is unerringly taken hostage until he feels better. Sam’s completely okay with the fact though, more than okay. Dean is opposed to accepting physical comfort, emotional too, and Sam likes to think Dean steals his hoodies because it’s as close to a hug from Sam as Dean allows himself to accept.

Sam knocks on the bathroom door three times with no answer before trying the knob, thanking God that the lock doesn't work. Dean is standing in front of the mirror, towel wrapped around his waist, still wet and dripping as if he hadn't bothered to dry off. Sam catches sight of long red scratches down Dean's back and dark bruises on his neck before Dean is yelling at him, yanking the clothes from his arms and shoving him from the room. Sam lets him, somewhat in shock at what he saw. The slam of the door in his face knocks him back to his senses, and he retreats to his bed, perching on the edge with his gaze trained on the crappy bathroom door, his history test a distant memory.

It's nearly another hour before Dean emerges, a carefully constructed mask of indifference plastered across his features that is ruined by the way he shifts uncomfortably as if his whole body aches and self-consciously pulls at the sleeves and collar of the hoodie. It does a good job at hiding the scratches and bruised wrists, but the loose collar shows Dean's throat for the world to see, like a freaking display box for the dark hickeys and finger shaped bruises.

Sam shoots up from the bed stopping just short of tackling his brother. "What happened? Where were you?"

And Dean frigging _smiles_ , empty and wrong. "Sorry to worry you, Samantha. Got caught up with girl and lost track of time. She was something," Dean says smirking, but his words catch at the last sentence and he won’t look right at Sam. And it's so _Dean_ but so utterly wrong because the mirth doesn't reach Dean's eyes, and he doesn't even mention Sam's test or the fact that Sam is supposed to be in school which should be Dean's first topic because he always cares about Sam's education and things Sam sees as important.

Sam gapes at him and grabs a wrist before Dean can protest, yanking the sleeve up to expose the torn and bruised skin that could only result from pulling against handcuffs.

Dean snatches his hand back with a snarl but softens his expression at the horror Sam's face. "Look, it's nothing. All right, Sammy?"

But it is most definitely not all right, and Sam stares at Dean pleadingly, silently begging for an explanation until Dean shouts, "I'm okay!" He clicks his mouth shut with a pensive look like he just realizes shouting is not the best way to convince Sam he is fine. Dean takes a deep breath and continues in a more level tone. "I went home with this chick and she just...got a little rougher and…exploratory,” Dean stumbles over the word, flushing and skittering his gaze away, “than I'm comfortable with. It's no big deal,” he finishes making sure to meet Sam’s eyes, open and honest.

But it is a big deal and Sam feels numb as his next question slips out. "Why did you let her?"

Dean's expression shutters closed and he shoots Sam a withering look that makes Sam feel like an asshole before crawling into bed, back turned to Sam as he burrows beneath the blankets.

Sam remains where he is standing, brain trying frantically to put together all the pieces. There's only one way a woman, Hell anyone really, could dominate Dean, and Sam's stomach twists at the thought.

Sam stays in the rest of the day, and the next day and the day after that, watching over Dean as his brother dozes fitfully on and off, wishing he could offer some sort of comfort but knowing he'd be refused. Dean doesn't let Sam tend to the scratches for two days and when he finally does they’re angry and red, and Sam feels like crying. Dean says nothing, but drinks himself to oblivion that night.

Dean doesn’t go back to any bars for a couple of weeks. The scratches and bruises fade, but Dean doesn’t pick up any girls or hook up with anyone for two or three months. He keeps Sam’s hoodie for fifty-three days.

Sam doesn't know how to handle a silent and withdrawn Dean, and Dad remains oblivious the whole time brushing off Sam’s attempts to bring up his concerns. Sam handles it the only way he knows how, burying himself in research and reading everything he can find on date rape and male victims. There’s a disturbing lack of literature (Sam has to dig deeper than ever before, shocking considering what he usually researches, to find even one article relating an instance where a female is the perpetrator), and Sam often feels like crying over the comments he stumbles across belittling the seriousness of the issue. Virtually nothing is relevant and even less is helpful so Sam goes back to his old tried and true way of making himself an open pillar of strength as much as possible though Dean does his best to ignore and forget.

Sam doesn't let Dean go to any bars alone, always tagging along as backup, and Dean never objects.

Sam swears to himself that day he'll never let Dean out of his sight in bars, and he keeps that promise until he leaves for Stanford less than two years later.

 

_Three: John (Dean-23, Sam-19)_

The third time happens while Sam is at college, and he never learns about it just like John never hears about the first two. Dean and John are unwinding after a stressful hunt at some noname bar in the middle of Nowhereville. John is nursing down heavy whiskey at a corner table half in the shadows, and Dean is charming skirts off half the ladies at the bar. He never notices the man who bumps into him does it on purpose and neither does John, both too distracted to see the man slip a little something in Dean's drink.

John looks up from the bottom of his many glasses a while later, just in time to see his eldest being ushered out the door by two burly men.

The sight hits John's cords hard enough that even half-smashed he knows something isn't right, and it's not the fact that Dean walked out of the bar with two dudes. John doesn’t give a rat's ass who his boy fucks as long as Dean does his job. It's the fact that Dean walked out without so much as a glance in John's direction, which goes against everything John ever taught him.

John's up from his table and moving without conscious thought, striding quickly in accordance with the worry pooling in his gut at odds with the numbing alcohol he's ingested.

The cool air hits him like a slap in the face doing wonders to make him feel a bit more sober. He pauses just beyond the door, wondering where the men and his Dean have gone and worried for one heart-stopping moment that they'd piled into a vehicle and left.

A muffled grunt catches his attention from the alleyway, and he's off in a flash darting around the side of the building. The sight that greets him sets his blood on fire and tunnels his vision.

Dean is pressed against the brick wall, arms pinned above his head as the one man kisses him hard while grinding their hips obscenely into Dean's groin. The other man stands slightly off to the side, his back to John as he moans appreciatively and asks when it's his turn.

Now John doesn’t care who Dean bangs, Lord knows the kid isn’t too picky and likes to get around, and dammit John isn’t going to control that aspect of Dean's life like he does with every other part (though if Dean really is into scruffy men twice his age John should probably look into it). But God help him, his boy better be goddamn willing or John will personally castrate whoever thought they had a right to touch Dean without his explicit permission.

And these men right here sure as Hell do not have Dean's permission.

It doesn't take long. Not even a minute before John has his arms wrapped around Dean, protectively steering his drug befuddled son back to their motel room a couple blocks away. He leaves the men in the alley knocked out cold, both sporting broken bones and potentially irreversible damage to a certain part of their anatomy.

Dean spends the rest of the night worshipping the porcelain throne, whatever the men gave him either not agreeing with him or perhaps the alcohol coursing through his system, and a majority of the next day dead to the world sleeping off the after effects.

John watches over him, only leaving for food runs. He sits at the table and cleans every weapon he owns trying not to think about what would have happened if he'd looked up from his drink a second later or had never gone to that bar with Dean in the first place.

Dean doesn't remember anything when he wakes up, and John lets him think he just had one Hell of a bender unable to even contemplate telling Dean what really happened.

(He does, randomly he’s sure Dean thinks, broach the subject of watching one’s drink in a bar carefully so as to avoid _unpleasant_ experiences, going so far as to touch upon the words ‘roofied’, ‘assault’, and, after some trouble getting his tongue around the syllable, ‘rape _’_. Dean’s suspiciously subdued by the topic, but John refuses to pursue that train of thought and is satisfied by Dean’s assurances that he’ll be careful.)

John dreams about the alley and the men and Dean shoved against the wall too drugged to defend himself as the men take what they want and leave Dean behind damaged and broken.

John doesn't let Dean out of his sight for weeks after, and if Dean notices he doesn't say a word.

 

_Four (Dean-25, Sam-20)_

Dean is alone the fourth time. On a hunt of his own in Impact, Texas; a haunting Dad assigned to him before dropping off the grid. He finishes the job with relative ease and decides to treat himself before he leaves. It is his birthday after all and twenty-five is some kind of milestone. He knows Sam won't call (kid’s not that great at initiating contact and rarely answers when Dean calls; plus Dean refuses to be a bitch and call Sam because he’s a little lonely) and Dad's been incommunicado for five days so Dean figures what the Hell, he'll find a nice girl to celebrate with.

He finds a cool bar, gets a couple drinks, and starts searching for a long legged brunette with a flexible look about her. He chats up the bartender and a couple other chicks, but none are quite what he's looking for tonight. And tonight is special.

Around ten a tall man who reminds Dean of Sam, if Sam wore a cowboy hat and had a Texas accent, starts talking to him. Dean figures the guy is fishing for something Dean won't deliver, but talks to him anyway because he's feeling lonely as Hell and all the alcohol seems to be making the feeling worse instead of better. So he sits with the Sam-Look-Alike and misses his brother something awful as his twenty-fifth slips through his fingers with nary a call or even a text from anyone. The constant ache in his chest is more painful today than it has been in awhile, but he’s somewhat relieved to feel a little of the pressure ease off as he trades anecdotes with Sam’s doppelganger, whose name he hasn’t yet caught but decides he needs to.

He catches on to the fact that something is off when he can't think clearly enough to tell Sam With An Accent that he doesn't like where Sam With An Accent's hands are going. He can't figure out when they left the bar or where they are now but he's pretty sure he doesn't want what he's being given.

Sam With An Accent is heavy and his cologne clogs Dean’s nostrils. Dean feels like he’s drowning in thick molasses, and he wants so much to tell Sam to stop but his tongue won’t cooperate and Sam doesn't seem to be listening to him much anyway.

It occurs to Dean, as his mind drifts detachedly, that he should be able to fight Sam off. He knows how to kill a man about fifty different ways with his hands alone and twelve of them are practically painless and silent, and therefore perfect for what he needs right now. But the methods are slipping away just as fast as Dean can recall them and so Sam stays right where he is undeterred and unobstructed. And the ache in Dean’s chest returns ten-fold along with an overwhelming urge to cry because Dean’s never felt so goddamn _helpless_ in his life.

Time spins and swirls mixed with fear, shame, anger, and pain. It's like a bad concussion combined with a tilt-a-whirl ride, and Dean wakes to find himself huddled in the shower of his motel room shivering under icy water with no recollection beyond a screwed up tilt-a-whirl ride of how or why he got there.

There are bruises on his arms and hips, his ass aches something awful and his head is pounding like a monkey is beating it with a sledgehammer. His clothes are dirty, torn, and there's blood on his boxers and the seat of his jeans. Dean throws them away and spends the rest of the day drifting in and out of sleep, feeling like he is being pitched about on ocean waves and ignoring the shrill ringing of his phone that pierces his head.

When he can finally stand without falling over to kiss the ground Dean packs and leaves town.

Thirty miles out he remembers his phone and checks his voicemail. Two are from Bobby, one wishing him a belated happy birthday complete with an apology and the other inquiring about his well-being. He sends Bobby a quick text thanking him and saying he's fine so the bastard won't go worrying too much. The rest are from Dad, all demanding why Dean won't answer his phone and generally yelling about following orders.

He calls Dad back, unsurprised when Dad answers after the first ring launching directly into a lecture about responsibility and rules of answering the goddamned phone when he gets a freaking call.

Dean listens passively, strangely unaffected by what would usually have him cringing and apologizing profusely. But for some reason he can't get himself to care. He listens as Dad rattles off more orders and coordinates, saying 'yes sir' in all the right spots, telling Dad that yes he'd written the coordinates and information down even though he already can't remember any of it, the words slipping out of his mind with barely a whisper.

When Dad finally pauses and asks if he's all right Dean feels his throat close up and for a moment he's terrified that he isn't okay, not at all.

But after a long minute, the strange flash of panic fades a bit and Dean can push out the words, "Yes, sir. Just, uh, what are the coordinates again?"

He is okay, he always is.

He can never remember exactly what happened the night he turned twenty-five; sometimes thinks he just simply won’t let himself remember. He remembers Sam in a cowboy hat with a Texas accent, but the dark hole after remains utterly vacant.

He never digs, but finds himself with an unexplained aversion to said Texas accents, cowboy hats, and musky colognes.

 

_Five: Stranger (Dean 26, Sam-22, March 2005)_

The fifth time Dean’s alone again. It’s spring break and Dean’s in Panama City Beach, Florida having just laid to rest one Caroline Jenkins, a scorned mistress who happened to be a hotel house keeper, as a favor for one of Dad’s old friends who owns said hotel Jenkins was fond of haunting.

With his room paid for by the house, Dean decides to stay an extra night and try his luck with the multitudes of college girls swarming the place. The bar downstairs is nice, open to the outdoors with squishy barstools and neat, round tables.

It’s nine o’clock when he comes in, and the first couple girls he talks to seem inexorably drunk to the point where they don’t know their own name so there’s no way he’s going anywhere with them besides the bar or to a cab outside, maybe up to their rooms, if they can remember which one, to drop them off. Because like Hell is he in the practice of picking up drunken chicks who can’t even explicitly tell him if they want some loaded fries let alone if they want to play hanky panky. Meeting up with a chick with all offers on the table totally clear and getting mutually drunk before a roll in the hay is one thing; finding them drunk and just assuming they’d love to have sex with him, even if he’s pretty sure most would, is a big no-no in his book.

He chats up one blonde, deciding pretty early on she’s not coherent enough and it doesn't really matter anyway because she keeps breaking out into random songs, which Dean finds annoying because she’s not even singing the classics. But he sticks with her until a worried friend turns up and he can hand her off, satisfied she’ll be taken care of, then moves on to a pretty brunette with delicious caramel skin and a soft petite blonde.

They’re no better off than the one he just left (though there’s no _Hollaback Girl_ or Mariah Carey karaoke so there’s a win) but he chats anyway allowing himself slight touches and feather light kisses but knowing he’ll go no further. He notices one girl from a new group—who looks very, very sober—glaring at him across the barroom. After a few minutes he feels decidedly uncomfortable and rearranges himself so he can’t see her and tries to relax despite the laser glare he can practically feel burning into his back along phantom scratches that healed long ago.

The brunette, Jamie, and the blonde, Cally, are funny even if they’re a little drunker than Dean ever advises getting in public places. He finds himself enjoying their talk though he knows the end deal doesn't have him getting laid.

Another sleazy looking man tries to sidle up and join their conversation, but Dean pegs his interests as too far below the girls’ faces and wastes no time in telling the scoundrel to get lost. The man scowls but listens, muttering something about how Dean only needs one girl to scratch his itch for god’s sake, and Dean’s stomach flip-flops uncomfortably at the implication.

He asks Jamie where they’re staying and she’s only too happy to provide the information, which cements Dean’s certainty that they’re not fit to be where they are. He takes Jamie and Cally outside, letting them hang on to him more for balance than anything as he gets them a cab. He relates to the cabbie the name of the hotel giving him enough to cover the cab fare, and, after a moment of calculating decision, slips the young trustworthy looking Asian kid another hundred asking him to make sure they get to their room safely.

When he turns back to the bar he finds Very Very Sober Girl watching him with an indecipherable expression. He brushes past her with a pointedly puzzled look but she doesn't seem willing to elaborate on whatever her problem with him is.

Nearing one in the morning he finds himself alone at the bar, wondering when his night of planned fun turned into playing freelance protector for inebriated sorority girls but surprisingly he doesn't mind much. He nurses his own drink and people-watches paying close attention to girls who look too incapacitated and doing his best to ignore the periodic staring from Very Very Sober Girl who must be a designated driver or something because she hasn’t touched a drop. Dean kind of wishes she would so she would loosen up a bit and quit ogling at him.

Another guy drops on to the stool next to Dean and strikes up a conversation. Dean is a tad surprised and goes to move, wanting to be left alone more than anything, but the dude implores him to stay, offering to buy a round of drinks. So Dean does, slowly sinking back onto his stool tense at first but relaxing soon, though he sticks to his rule and lets the guy drink the ones he bought while Dean opts for his own drink.

Mark’s girlfriend apparently dumped him a couple hours before via text message and Dean feels for the guy as he downs shot after shot and regales Dean with tales of their two-year romance. Dean finds he doesn't have to do much talking, which is fine with him.

He goes to the bathroom around two o’clock and returns to discover Mark has some sort of drinking game set up. He shrugs and says why not, savoring the burn of the alcohol down his throat and heat in his stomach. He knows he’s reaching his limit and declines another round wanting to keep himself fairly levelheaded. Getting wasted in a bar alone is a decidedly stupid idea.

Mark keeps up a steady string of words, and Dean isn’t quite sure when he stops being able to process them and wonders when he had too much to drink, moderately sure he stopped far before reaching his tolerance level. He muddles through his thought processes no longer even trying to follow the buzz of sound to his right.

Eventually he reaches the conclusion that he must have drank far more than he thought and the right course of action is to stumble up to his room and crash until late evening tomorrow. He tries to communicate the fact to Mitch or whatever the dude’s name is but doesn't think he gets his point across. He tries to stand, deciding he no longer cares if he comes off as rude, but Mike’s hands are insistent as they tug him back into his seat.

Dean’s stomach rolls and rebels, and it’s all Dean can do to stay upright on the stool. Matt guides him from his seat and Dean can vaguely understand he’s telling the bartender he knows Dean and will make sure he gets home. Dean wants to protest, say he never met Melvin before tonight and he could make his _own_ way to his _own_ room upstairs just fine on his _own_ , thank you very much.

But the bartender’s nodding, and Manny is steering Dean out the doors, and Dean can’t figure out for the life of him how to get away.

Marcus is haling a cab when Dean hears a shout from behind him. He feels Mario’s hand tighten on his elbow as they turn, and it takes Dean a moment to recognize Very Very Sober Girl. She looks pissy and Dean feels a wave of fear wash over him that she’s finally decided to tear him a new one over whatever she hates him for. She snaps something almost too fast for Dean’s muddled mind to follow, something about how she could take care of him, and Dean spends the next few seconds precariously puzzled.

Marlin laughs, repeats what he said to the bartender about being Dean’s friend and Dean wants very much to contest that but his tongue seems to be on strike. The girl’s eyes flick to Dean and he hopes he’s conveying what he’s thinking but the truth of the matter is he probably just looks like an utterly plastered idiot.

But she objects anyway and Dean wants to cry in relief as she dryly states that Mildew only met Dean three hours ago. She adds in something like she watched how much Dean had drank and didn’t think he should be so absolutely smashed. (Dean spends point three seconds internally freaking out about the fact that Very Very Sober Girl apparently stalked him all night before letting the matter go.) Then she’s grabbing Dean’s arm and pulling him away from Moldy firmly saying something about calling the cops.

Mark, Mark is his name, the corner of his brain that was working on the issue for the longest time supplies, looks angry but relents and lets Dean go with just a few expletive words as he gets in his cab. Dean stands very still, well he thinks it’s still but the world is tossing and turning so it’s probably not, and Dean’s not even sure anymore why he’s trying to stand still. Very Very Sober Girl is talking to him gently, and Dean decides he likes her and hopes she won’t turn out like the one chick in Iowa with the kink for BDSM which, by the way, is _really_ something that should come up in conversation before she takes the guy to her house and offers him a drink. He shivers at the thought but lets himself be led back into the bar.

It’s all quite a blur of images and sounds after that, and when Dean groans back to the coherent world he finds himself in unfamiliar surroundings sans his jacket and shoes but with the rest of his clothes present and intact. For some reason that alone makes him ridiculously relieved.

He pushes himself up on the bed, squinting in the light that hurts his eyes. There’s a glass of water next to the bed along with a damp washcloth, tissues and a trash bin. He gulps the water down and stumbles to his feet trying to orient himself. He can’t remember going home with anyone, vaguely recalls that most of the girls he bothered to talk to had been too drunk so he’d just made sure they made it back to their rooms, but none of that explains where he is now.

He rubs his forehead and stumbles towards the bathroom, shocked to see his Taurus sitting innocuously on the dresser by the bathroom door. Immediately he checks his waistband knowing already he’d find nothing. It’s in that moment of shock that the door behind him clunks open. Dean grabs his pistol, clicking the safety off and quickly stuffs it behind his back as Very Very Sober Girl elbows her way into the room holding two Styrofoam food containers and coffee cups.

Her eyes flick to his hand and she raises her eyebrows but only says, “Chill, dude, I just have breakfast. I’m not going to bite you.”

She means it as a joke, Dean knows she does, but he swallows and relaxes at the assurance anyway (because he’s really, _really_ not that into biting) bringing the gun back into sight and reengaging the safety. He shifts awkwardly, tucks the gun into his waistband, and, like the real man he is, flees to the relative security of the bathroom.

He hides in there far longer than he’ll ever admit before reentering the hotel room to find Very Very Sober Girl munching on a muffin and sipping coffee while watching the news. She gestures to the other cup and container resting on the bed and Dean sinks down to sit next to her cautiously. His container holds another blueberry muffin and a bagel with cream cheese. Both are more Sam’s kind of food but he picks at it anyway, taking generous gulps of his own coffee.

“I’m Katie,” she says at length. Dean nods mutely. “You don’t happen to have a friend named Mark here, do you?”

Dean shakes his head.

“Didn’t think so.” She pauses and eats a few more bites before saying, “You shouldn’t come to places like this alone, you know. Unless you’re not going to accept drinks from anyone and monitor your own like Fort Knox.”

Dean clenches his jaw and remains silent because she’s right, but it wasn’t like he had anyone to go with. At length he remarks on her stupidity of dragging a six foot armed man back to her room which causes her to laugh and say that a kitten could have taken him down last night, and she only brought him to her room because Dean hadn’t been able to coherently tell her where his room was. It’s all very mortifying for his manliness so Dean decides to not press the issue.

“And the gun didn’t scare you?” he asks to redirect the conversation and mildly curious as handguns generally sent most civilians into varying states of shock.

Katie shrugs. “I’m from rural PA, pretty much everyone in my family carries,” she says and leaves it at that asking him how he feels.

Dean grunts noncommittally, still feeling like total crap but unwilling to broadcast the fact. “You came after me,” he says instead.

Katie bites her lip. “Of course. You didn’t look okay and I wasn’t going to let some scumbag tote you off to God knows where to do God—”

“No,” Dean interrupts. “Thanks for that, but I mean before. With Jamie and Cally.”

“Ah,” Katie says. “Yeah I thought _you_ were the scumbag at first. I came to get the girls, but then I saw you put them in a cab and pay the guy to make sure they got there safely.”

“And then you stared at me all night,” Dean adds, varying his tone to make it sound like a question.

Katie shrugs. “Dude, you kept doing it. Handing off the drunk girls to whoever seemed safest.”

“Well, I’m not gonna sleep with a plastered chick who can’t say yes. Not a scumbag,” he mutters into his coffee cup.

Katie raises an eyebrow skeptically again. “There were lots of sober girls there if you were looking for a lay. You, my friend, were purposely seeking out the sloshed girls and scaring off assholes like some kind of Redneck Avenger.”

Dean feels his cheeks flush, ducking his head in an attempt to hide it. He shrugs and doesn't reply.

He stays in Katie’s room until after noon; he offers to buy her a drink but she declines with a laugh and says she has friends to meet up with. So he thanks her once more before saying goodbye and packing up to leave Florida in his rearview. Dad had called. There’s a case in New Orleans.

 

_Six: Sam (Dean-27, Sam-22, February 2006)_

Sam forgets the kind of attention his brother has a habit of attracting. Forgets until he’s once again sitting at an out of the way table, going over their notes for their chase after Dad while Dean hustles some much needed cash at the pool tables.

Dean’s in-between games, leaning and chatting amiably with the other bar goers. Sam’s only half-watching Dean and his heavyset friend out of the corner of his eye, and perhaps that’s why he sees the quick flash of sleight of hand over Dean’s glass while Dean’s grinning at the generously bosomed blonde to his left and paying zero attention to the man on his right.

The memories flood back suddenly; memories of Dean drugged and incoherent, of Dean quiet and withdrawn, moody and irritable, of Sam acting as the buffer between him and the rest of the world. Sam is out of his seat and across the bar without conscious thought of moving.

Dean turns around with a wide grin and an exclamation—“Sammy!”—drink clutched in his left hand. Sam clenches his jaw, grabs the drink out of Dean’s hand ignoring Dean’s look of shock and bewilderment, and pulls himself up and up and up to his full height to tower over Dean’s bar buddy.

The man gulps and takes a stuttering step back, making a move to dart away. Sam seizes his coat collar and hauls him back, smashing his face into the dirty bar and slams the glass next to his nose, amber liquid sloshing up the side.

“Sam!” Dean exclaims, watching wide-eyed but doing nothing to interfere. Sam’s not prone to exhibitions of strength and violence without good reason.

The bar is silent and the bartender orders them to settle down or take it outside, which Sam ignores, twisting the man’s head to the side and dumping the drink into his mouth before covering his mouth and nose to force him to swallow. Sam lets go and grinds the man’s cheek into the counter leaning down to breathe in his ear, “Now you’ll know how it feels. Don’t _ever_ do that again.”

Then he lets the man up, shoving the disgusting excuse of human flesh away and positioning himself protectively in front of Dean as the man scrambles back and out of the bar. Dean’s looking at him with cloaked apprehension and cluelessness, but Sam knows Dean’s figured it out. Dean’s smart; he’d put together the pieces of the drink, the burly man, and Sam’s overprotectiveness in the only part of Dean’s life it was ever permitted.

Dean moves to leave, slowing only a tad to let Sam gather his things before shadowing his brother out of the bar leaving behind stunned silence and the beginnings of murmuring. Dean pauses in the semi-dark parking lot next to the car, peers up at Sam from over the top of the Impala and is silent a long moment before saying, “You didn’t have to do that.”

Sam fights down the growl that of course he did. It’s his job to protect Dean just as it is Dean’s job to protect him. Instead he takes a steadying breath and says, "I'm not letting you go through that again like in Iowa. Ever. Not while I'm around."

Dean stares at him, a haunted indecipherable look on his face that sets Sam's nerves on fire and he wants to ask if anything ever happened while he was at Stanford, almost does, but pushes the question down at the last moment.

Dean gives him a small, slight smile. A smile that's more sad than anything and thanks him softly before settling into the Impala.

Sam follows his brother's lead pretending the smile was one of gratitude and ignoring the voice in his head that is telling him he left Dean alone in crappy bars for nearly five years.

Because no one is going to hurt his brother; not while he’s around.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> I can be found on [tumblr](http://little-red-and-his-wolves.tumblr.com).


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